


don’t touch me, i’m a real live wire

by smallredboy



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Autistic Greg House, Concerts, Cuddling & Snuggling, Greg House and James Wilson Being in Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Shutdowns, autistic author, sensory overloads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: House thinks a concert would be a good idea, but his sensory issues have something to say against the notion.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 81
Collections: Froday Flash Fiction Little & Monthly Specials 2020, Hurt/Comfort Bingo - Round 11





	don’t touch me, i’m a real live wire

**Author's Note:**

> **hurt/comfort bingo:** cuddling  
>  **fffc's 100th special:** concert
> 
> enjoy!

Gregory House, in his forty-five years of life, has never gone to a concert.

Well, that's a half-lie— he's never gone to a _big_ concert. He's gone to those with an audience that's half empty at a bad underground scene, the music making his bones shake while not being too loud, with bodies pressed against him from all angles. He knows that he has sensory issues, that he's autistic, but he didn't have a total breakdown at the last concern he went to, which was three months before his infarction, so he should be fine, right? Right.

He finds out that there's a concert for one of his favorite bands only an hour away from Princeton, and immediately gets two tickets and begs Wilson to come with. He relents, albeit reluctantly, talking about how he's never quite liked concerts. House just calls him a pussy and goads him into coming with.

What he finds out is that his sensory preferences are not the same as ten years ago, as they are ever shifting and ever changing. For a long while he craved pressure, begged for it, getting a weighted blanket and using it for a long while, before one day it felt like he was asphyxiating under it. Now pressure sets him off; he's not keen on hugs except from Wilson, when they all come as good as anything, those bone-crushing things the only good pressure there is n the world.

They get early to the concert, because of course they do, and they find themselves about halfway between the very back and the very front. It's one of those _big_ concert arenas, ready for everything to be filled to the brim. And of course, it is filled to the brim— he's one of those new popular artists, those that fill arenas. He's one of the few younger artists House actually likes, most of them only something he can stand; he's much more of an old music type of person. He's aware there's a thousand other middle-aged men grunting and grumbling about how _ugh, the seventies had REAL music!_ , but he can at least acknowledge that there is some good music coming out nowadays.

House has convinced himself that it'd be fine. Because it'll be fine, really, as long as he holds onto his cane and onto Wilson. Wilson knows how to take care of him if anything does go wrong, anyway, so it's not the end of the world if it does. But still— the concert starts, _how you doing_ s and _lets get this show on the road_ s and whatnot. Everything is fine— the loud music is fine, even, having made sure that he wore headphones that would at least make it not hurt. And they work! It doesn't hurt.

It's not until House is being _touched_ that everything starts to go wrong.

At first it's one person, bumping into him. But as the songs grow louder, more intense, everything go wrong with them— before he knows it he's having person after person pressing, pushing against him, dancing and singing and crying out for the musician on stage.

"Fuck," he breathes out, his hands tingling, going cold as more people press against him. Wilson is minding his own business, lost in the music, swaying gently against him, bobbing his head to the rhythm. "Wilson?" he says softly, words going out of his mouth very choked out, forced. He feels like he's going to go nonverbal, and he fucking hates going nonverbal. He doesn't ever feel useless except when his vocal chords don't work— that's what he uses the most, to express his ideas and do his job. Without speech he can't do it. He's had plenty of nightmares about going nonverbal at work and Chase, Cameron and Foreman just staring at him.

Wilson doesn't hear him over the music, and by when he looks at him he's already nonverbal. Words can't go out of his mouth as much as he tries, and his head thumps in pain, desperate to get an out. He doesn't want to bother Wilson, though, he seems like he's enjoying this. He maintains a tight grip on his cane and lets out a whimper before elbowing Wilson. He yelps and turns to look at him, and his eyes go wide.

"Oh God, House, fuck, I almost forgot you brought me here," he says. "Do you need to leave? Are you okay?"

He swallows. The music thumps, makes his bones vibrate, his head hurt, his teeth ache. He wants it to be over, to be at a safe place without the noise and the people. The noise is okay, the people are not. He shakes his head, hoping he gets across the message that he's not okay. Wilson's eyes widen a modicum.

"Fuck, you're nonverbal. Okay, let me help."

He grabs him by the shoulder gently and leads him into the crowd, which is even worse, but a necessary evil. He grits his teeth hard and closes his eyes, following Wilson blindly as Wilson apologizes every time he bumps into someone, which is very often. It feels like forever but eventually they're out of there, no more people pressing against them, pulling them in.

"We need to leave," Wilson says to the security in front of him.

House keeps his eyes shut, fiddles with his cane.

"Is it a medical emergency?"

"My friend is having a shutdown," he explains. "He's autisitc. He went nonverbal. Please let us out."

House grips at the cane so hard it feels like he's going to splinter it open somehow. He wants to chuck it at the guy's head, make it burst open and have him bleed out. He cringes at the thought.

"Fine," the security guard says, begrudging, like he's not supposed to let disabled people pass when they're in need. House's mouth tastes rotten.

Wilson pulls him along and out of the concert, the music still booming in his ears. He lets out a shaky breath and looks at him before clinging onto him in an awkward, one-armed hug, the other arm grabbing tightly at his cane, like it might disappear if he doesn't grab it with all the strength in the world.

"Hey, shh, it's okay," Wilson says, ducking his head onto the crook of his neck, a comforting gesture. "I'm right here. We'll get right back home, okay?"

House nods, voice still not working, as much as he tries to let any sound out besides pathetic whimpers. He follows Wilson back home, everything fuzzy as things grow quieter, no one pressed against him except for the well known hands of his husband. He lets out a shaky sigh.

"Do you want to cuddle?" Wilson asks. "I know that doesn't always help, but maybe it'll help now."

House swallows and nods. Cuddling sounds nice. He's exhausted and every part of him feels like he's on edge, about to explode or shoot off into the distance. He follows Wilson's lead to the couch— Wilson is the one to settle down first, comfortable as he beckons him over. He looks at him for a long moment before curling up against him.

Wilson wraps his hands around him, strong arms holding him and tucking him into his chest.

"It's okay," he tells him, ever so gently, like he's something to be protected. It makes him feel small, perfect, ready to be coddled. He whimpers into his chest and stays there for what feels like ages. At no point does Wilson complain or pull away, at no point does Wilson grunt and tell him he has to go get something to drink. For what seems like hours, Wilson holds him, cuddles up with him, cradles him in his arms.

He doesn't force himself to talk. He used to— a lot of the time he forced words to come out of his mouth when he was nonverbal, and it always tasted rotten afterward and made him teeter closer and closer to a complete meltdown. So he doesn't say anything, even as he starts feeling like he _can_. He remains still, there, bundled up against Wilson, until he manages to find his voice.

"Could you make us some tea?" he asks. He's usually much more fond of coffee, but, well. "And could you bring me a blanket?"

Wilson immediately starts moving, getting up and placing him gently on the couch. "Of course." A pause. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Yeah," he says. "I'm feeling a lot better. Thank you. I'm... I'm better. Just need a little more to recover."

"Take your time," Wilson says earnestly.

House smiles at him, lovestruck, as he watches him go to the kitchen.


End file.
